The Lack of One Last Miracle
by plasticrosesaren'tforever
Summary: John finally realises that the one last miracle his delusional mind has created hasn't actually occurred.


"I missed you." John whispered. He lay in the darkness, head nestled in his bed's pillow as Sherlock perched on the mattress's edge, stroking his hair in rhythmic motions. John grinned up at the ceiling whilst his friend smiled down at him gently, his happiness lit by a slither of street light sifting in through the curtains. John had been out all day, working at the surgery until late, but thankfully Sherlock had awaited his return.  
"I always miss you." Sherlock breathed, his voice barely audible, even above the silence that enveloped them both. John chuckled softly, shifting himself to press up against the man. He enjoyed the strange, unexpected warmth Sherlock radiated.

"No you don't." John muttered, shaking his head. "Not when you're busy, experimenting or playing the violin. You're way too occupied during things along those lines." Sherlock was quiet for a while, continuing to caress John at a never changing speed.  
"I stopped going on cases for you, didn't I? I can stop the violin and experiments for you, John." He insisted, his voice's volume increasing.  
"No. I don't mind it. I was just making a point. Besides, I like your violin playing. And possibly even your experiments. From time to time." John replied quickly. He'd noticed that Sherlock had been very obedient lately, doing whatever he desired. At one point in time, John would've appreciated this, but sometimes it felt as though the man had changed. Weakened, even. As though Sherlock Holmes relied on him to function. But John wasn't going to let this faze him. His best friend had narrowly, miraculously escaped death, and he must willingly make the most of what he could have so easily lost.

"I'd do anything for you. Anything to prove how much you mean to me. I love you!" When reaching the declaration of emotion for John, Sherlock tipped his head back and abruptly shouted it into the pitch black, before grinning in a proud manner.  
"Jesus, Sherlock! You'll wake someone!" John yelled to stress the fact he was serious, but he couldn't help beaming. Snuggling into his friend further, he sighed contentedly. Looking up at the man, John watched him stare adoringly back. He knew Sherlock was the most beautiful creature he'd ever come across. The thought of the gorgeous dark curls that formed his hair, translucent white skin that stretched his over lean muscle and the green of his eyes never failed to make John feel mesmerized, and in this light Sherlock seemed heavenly - angelic, even. Inhaling deeply, he propped himself up to look at his friend closely. His heart slammed rapidly against his chest as his face reached his friends, a few mere centimetres separating their lips.  
"I love you, too, Sh-"

John was cut off by the bedroom door swinging open. Turning quickly from Sherlock to the entrance, his gaze met with Mrs. Hudson.  
"John? Are you alright? I heard you shouting Sherlock's name..." She trailed off, taking in the look on the man's face.  
"I'm so sorry. Sherlock was being noisy. We'll be quiet from now on, I promise." John uttered apologetically, looking over to his friend for confirmation. Sherlock gave a small nod, and he turned back to Mrs. Hudson, whose face was creased into distraught look.  
"A-all right then, thank you John. I best be getting to sleep." She turned swiftly on her heel and shuffled out, closing the door behind her.

"She looked upset." Sherlock contemplated out loud.  
"That's exactly what I was thinking." John replied worriedly, giving his friend a guilty look.  
"Do you mind if I go and see if she's alright?"  
"Fine. I should probably stay here. We both know I'm not very good with emotions." Sherlock uttered. John went to get up, but the man held his hand up, signalling him to stop. Sherlock cupped his palm around John's face carefully, leaning down and planting a barely-there kiss, before straightening up. John caught his breath, before swinging his legs round, feet meeting soundlessly with the floor. He gave Sherlock a final glance before venturing out of their room, and quietly making his way to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

On reaching the door, he heard talking from inside. Hesitating, John stood and listened to assess whether he should enter or not.  
"...He's not getting better. Mycroft, he's not coping. Sherlock needs to know about this." She growled, each sentence spaced by long pauses. At the mention of his best friend, John grew curious and began to listen more intently. He'd never heard Mrs. Hudson so angered, and her uncharacteristic frustration drew him in further.  
"He still believes Sherlock survived the jump, for crying out loud! It's mad. This isn't right. You can't let it go on like this. Mycroft! He has an imaginary Sher-" John knocked heavily on the door, not wanting to hear any more of what Mrs. Hudson had to say. The conversation stopped, and he heard the woman make her way over to the entrance. On opening, she froze at the sight of John. There was a moment of fear shared by the both of them, before he spoke.  
"What are you talking about?" He hissed, gripping onto the door frame increasingly hard, to the extent that his hands grew white-knuckled. Mrs. Hudson swallowed hard, before looking him in the eye. Forever seemed to go by before she opened her mouth and spoke.  
"I think you know, John. You always have..." She exhaled, her voice quivering and eyes brimming with tears. She opened her mouth to continue, but he dreaded what would escape her lips.

John turned and ran, without hesitation, back to their room. Their empty room. **His** empty room. "Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock! SHERLOCK!" He mouthed at first, getting gradually louder until the name was being screamed in-between uncontrollable cries of pain. Crashing to his knees, John's body was racked with violent sobs. His head met the floor and there he kneeled, struggling to breath. Within his chest, an overpowering ache began. Just as he thought he was verging on hysterical, something brushed against John's shoulder. Forcing his gaze to follow in the direction of the touch, his eyes met with Sherlock's. Something resembling hope flickered in his pain-stricken heart.  
"John. You know Sherlock Holmes is dead. And I won't last forever. I'm not going to be able to stay; now your mind will doubt all this. But I've gotten you through the hardest part. It'll all get better. I'm sorry."

John flung himself at the Sherlock, arms outstretched, in an attempt to stop it from leaving. But he found himself crashing down onto the wooden floor sharply, crumpling into a pile. His mind would focus on nothing but vivid images of his friend's death. He continued to cry, arms wrapped around his knees, bawling until the tears ran out and sobbing until his throat was hoarse. At this point, John lay silent and still, listening to his heartbeat for reassurance that he was still alive, somehow. A dull light began slipping through the curtains- morning was arriving. Exhausted from everything, he allowed his eyes to shut. Just as his body drifted into unconsciousness, he opened his mouth and whispered his first and final goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
